when at war
by TenTenD
Summary: Men return broken from the war, and in fewer number than when they left. For those who have someone waiting for them it is a war in itself to keep the bad memories at bay (WWII-ish).


Lyanna doesn't really know what to do with the broken man on her doorstep. She invites him in, despite the fact that she doesn't really know him. Not anymore. In another life they could have been dancing together at a glamorous party. But now she can only see the shadows lurking in his eyes and the strange gauntness of his face. He's always been slender though.

"You're back." The observation is laced with surprise. So many good men have not come back. But he has. She takes his hand in hers more out of habit than genuine desire. One is supposed to be affectionate towards one's just returned husband.

He looks down at their entwined fingers. "I promised I would."

* * *

She wakes up to the sound of moaning. It is not pleasure she detects though. The sounds she hears are of agony. Lyanna rises slowly and turns towards her husband. Sweat is running down his skin. His hand spasms.

A scream trickles past his lips and his eyes open quite suddenly, light and unseeing. He jumps forward, half jumping off the bed, breathing hard. Confusion and fear mingle in his face and Lyanna feels her heart breaking. She touches his hand, soft and tentative. They exchange a couple of looks and she pulls him back under the covers, twining her arms around him, resting her head against his shoulder.

She drifts to sleep to the lullaby of him drawing breath.

* * *

They fall into a comfortable routine after the first few days. Lyanna didn't know what she expected, but this is not it. But she puts jam on the toast and he makes the tea – she finds that coffee doesn't agree with him either.

Living with him is almost like having a ghost around. He doesn't talk much, so she finds herself filling the long silences that descend between them. He doesn't move around much, so she finds different pretexts to get him out of the house. He is not the man she remembers, but she has tied herself to him and nothing will tear her away.

"Come help me with the roses," she tells him, smiling benevolently when he puts the newspaper down.

* * *

Lyanna has been touched just once. On her wedding night. She was young and scared, unsure of herself and her husband, for all she liked him. So the moment her husband touches her waist beneath the thick covers as she pretends to sleep, Lyanna freezes. Her breath catches and her eyes open involuntarily.

He is looking at her with a peculiar expression. Braving any instinct of retreat, she takes his face between her palms and places her lips against his, holding them together. Her husband takes it well.

Soon she finds herself settled under his weight, fingers running over still protruding ribs. Wet heat pools between her legs as his mouth opens against her closed lips. He coaxes her in a kiss that is damp and exciting.

* * *

He smiles in the morning light and the sight of it takes her breath away. This might be a sign that he is mending. Lyanna kisses the beginning of a scar that runs down his chest. It looks horrifying in the daylight. She doesn't ask about it, but her fingers trace the pattern gently. What have they done to her husband?

They make love again, lazily. She breathes in his scent and runs her fingers through his tangles curls. Something blooms inside her heart when he clutches her hand and spills himself inside of her. She murmurs in his hair, words of praise and love.

"Don't leave me again," she pleads in a moment of incoherency.

"Never," he declares passionately.

* * *

"I want-" he begins but never manages to finish as the plates crash to the floor with a deafening sound. Lyanna barely has time to voice her surprise before she finds herself on the floor, pinned between him and the ground. His body curls protectively around hers and his breathing grows laboured.

Inexplicably tears start pouring out of her eyes. Her breathing matching his, she wraps him in her arms, shushing his broken sobs and kissing his damp cheeks. "What have they done to you?" The question rings through the silence.

He doesn't answer. Instead he lifts himself off of her and hurries out the door. Lyanna decides against chasing him. She picks up the shards on the floor and throws them in the waste bin.

* * *

When he returns he has only apologies on his lips. Lyanna brushes those away, insisting that he doesn't have to say such things to her. On some level she understands that the scars run deeper than the naked eye can see.

They share the loveseat and she reads him some poetry. He used to like poetry. His head rests against her shoulder and the burden burns itself against her skin. She loves having him this close. She loves the way his fingers run across her thigh, absently drawing patterns against the wool of her skirt. She loves feeling his breath crash against her, warm and alive and real.

Many men didn't come back. But her husband did, and Lyanna thanks the gods daily for that.

* * *

Tangled in a mess of limbs and sweat, skin sticking to his, Lyanna brushes her lips to his cheek. "Talk to me."

"I don't know what to say to you. I have no pretty words left," he admits finally. Lyanna draws tighter against him. "I wish I did."

"I don't need pretty words," she insists. "I need my husband. I want my husband."

"I am not him," he replies and in that moment all the ghosts of the past bear down upon them.

"You are Rhaegar, the man I married." Saying his name after all this time bring her another sort of relief. Her answer is absolute. "I love you. Pretty words or no words, scars or not, I love you."

"So do I," he responds.


End file.
